


Night in the Daylight

by rolypoly_panda



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Family Feels, Fever, Gen, Gil Arroyo is Malcolm Bright's Parent, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Protective Gil Arroyo, Sickfic, Whump, and he sorta kinda gets it, and im not sure if it worked out, author was trying something new, dani and jt are really trying, guess were gonna fuckin see idk, like a little bit here and there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24983611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rolypoly_panda/pseuds/rolypoly_panda
Summary: While hunting down a serial killer in the middle of nowhere, Malcolm gets shot. To make matters worse, he's sick and unable to continue. And to make worse matterseven worse,the team gets held hostage by said serial killer. The only one able to save them is one very feverish, very bloody Malcolm Bright.And damn does he save them with style.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel
Comments: 28
Kudos: 193





	Night in the Daylight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts).



> All characters and copyright content belong to FOX.

The humidity was stifling and unbearably sticky, and Malcolm could hardly breathe as they trekked deeper and deeper into the dense forest. He had forgotten how annoying suits were in the heat. He had forgotten how heavy bulletproof vests were, even if he were wearing a lighter model. He had forgotten how useless his dress shoes were against dried leaves on dirt. Malcolm kept slipping without traction, struggling to breathe and walk and stay in a somewhat-coherent formation as his team stalked closer to Derek Morrison’s cabin.

Perhaps he should have slept more.

That had been his running narrative since he fumbled into the SUV earlier that morning. He had slammed the door shut, sank back into the seat, and had only just realized how  _ exhausted _ he was. What a time for the nightmares to kick into high gear, because  _ of course _ they would be going on a near hour-long hike in the middle of the hottest day of September. Something about him was disgusting. He had felt as if he were rotting from the inside-out, left shaking whilst being too-hot  _ and  _ too-cold. Malcolm had only hoped catching their killer would be quick so he could just lay down.

Their killer had supposedly murdered four hunters, each on four separate occasions. He hadn’t been on a spree, per se, as the deaths were stretched out enough for Malcolm to believe they were random. That, and the fact that none of the hunters had anything in common besides being males. Their youngest had been twenty-two, but their oldest was forty-nine. Two had brown hair, one had black, and one had blond. None of their heights or weights had matched up, but Malcolm figured that would have been the case. All deaths were within a five-mile radius of a small cabin. And all deaths had been quick with one shot ripping straight through the skull.

The facts had all lead to a rather swift conclusion.

“I believe we’re looking for someone who’s had a psychotic break.” Malcolm had explained yesterday, in the conference room. “He’s likely male, white, of average height and weight. He’s familiar with hunting, and familiar with his grounds.” That had led them to Derek Morrison rather easily. A few quick searches had found his cabin in the center of the five-mile radius, where the man could kill his game in peace with one quick, clean shot.

If they weren’t careful, they would end up the same way too, Malcolm supposed. Or, rather,  _ he  _ would end up the same way, given how far behind he was trailing.

Gil, Dani, and JT moved in their tight arrangement with caution, their firearms low but poised to fire. Malcolm stumbled behind them. His body felt heavy, limbs weak and wobbling. He watched and gawked as the team closed in on the cabin’s location at a uniformed pace, something Malcolm doubted he could ever achieve. Their steps were in-time despite their height differences. Their postures were mirroring the other’s perfectly. They each had one area covered, with Gil leading the charge, and Dani and JT on his left and right respectively. Meanwhile, he had the back. He “had the back”, because Malcolm wouldn’t consider following behind without a weapon or the right shoes as “having the back”. Rather, he considered it as them inviting him along. But Malcolm was their outlier. He was their janky third wheel, a bull to their china shop, the dangling participle to their otherwise flawless sentence.

Was he even necessary?

Malcolm had never truly felt like he belonged anywhere. Always the outcast, always the freak, always the son of a serial killer, of Martin Whitly, _of_ _the Surgeon_. It was who he was, sewn into his slim-cut suits and stitched into his existence. When he bled, he bled a mixture of his mother’s intensity and his father’s tactics. Malcolm couldn’t even sleep right. How could he ever be a part of a team?

Malcolm slipped, nearly falling on a patch of slimy leaves. He righted himself in time to see Gil stop at the top of the hill he was only halfway up. JT and Dani stood at attention at either side. Malcolm slouched. His head was fuzzy, stuffed with scratchy nothingness. Sweat made his clothes cling to him. Sticky heat left him wheezing. Malcolm glanced through his fringe to Dani, who was turned and looking concerned. She glanced back to Gil once before beginning back down at the hill.

Gil turned, followed by JT. Malcolm blinked slow, dropping his head to his chest as his hands slipped to his knees. When he peeled his eyes open once again, Gil was crouched in front of him, brow tight. “Kid, what’s going on? You okay?”

“Yeah…” Malcolm didn’t bother nodding. Everything ached, from the base of his feet up to the root of his skull; he wasn’t about to intentionally make anything worse. “Just tired.” he mumbled.

JT mumbled, “You look like you’re going to pass out, dude.”

Did he? Malcolm tried to blink again. Instead, his closed his eyes. They stayed closed for a long minute, long enough for him to slip into a fuzzy half-awake state.

He drifted for a moment.

Thoughtless.

Weightless.

Or,  _ almost weightless _ , until he felt two hands clap him on the shoulders. His eyes snapped open. Malcolm could feel himself shaking in Gil’s grasp. Gil was practically holding him upright, leaving him propped up with his forehead to the man’s chest. Malcolm closed his eyes again. He took in the sounds of the forest, of the wind rustling the leaves above, a shushing to calm his whirring mind. It was a cold salve to the sweat beading on his skin.

“He’s got a fever…” Gil’s voice trailed in.

JT cursed and said, “ _ Seriously? _ ”

Malcolm tuned them out, though not of his own volition. He could feel himself slipping, his eyes rolling up despite them being closed. Whatever attempts he made to shake off the muddled exhaustion he felt were thwarted, leaving him more tired than before.

Dani’s cadence filtered through, “...not supposed to be here…”

And Malcolm wanted to agree. He wanted to tell her that she was right, that he didn’t belong there at all, because what business did he have intruding their space? But before he could open his mouth, Gil was hauling him further upright, guiding his chin so that Malcolm was blinking up into his gaze. Gil kept his voice low. “Bright?” He shifted his weight a bit, his eyes snapping between Malcolm’s as if he were searching for something. “How do you feel? You with me?”

God, how Malcolm wanted to say ‘no’. How he wanted to drop to his knees, then to the ground, and curl up to sleep away the burning cold that wracked through him with every heavy pound of his heart. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t think of anything more than ‘no’, ‘no’, ‘no’.

But his gaze flitted up to JT, then over to Dani, and their faces spelled something he couldn’t quite figure out. Their brows were pinched, and their lips were tight as they waited for his answer. JT’s fingers thrummed against the grip of his gun, as Dani stood quietly, practically glaring holes through Malcolm to diagnose him herself. But diagnose with what?  Was she looking for an illness? Or was she looking for something more? Something deeper? Something darker? Something black and molding, wafting toxic fumes…

She was looking for The Surgeon inside of him.

She _had_ to be.

Their looks weren't ones concern, or anticipation. Rather, Malcolm saw disgust, and disappointment, because they  _ knew _ what he was. No matter how many times he had told them he wasn’t, no matter how many times he pleaded for them to see, to just  _ see _ that he was different, that he wasn’t  _ him _ .

He needed to  _ prove _ it.

Malcolm weakly wrestled out of Gil's hands. After a deep breath, he mumbled, “I’m fine…”

Gil was already shaking his head. “No,  _ no _ . That’s not what I meant, I--...Kid, you need to head back to the car. You’ve got a fever, Bright.”

“I can do this…” Malcolm slowly backed away. The last thing he wanted to do was face-plant in front of them, but he needed to stand on his own. He needed to prove it, to prove he wasn't Martin. Right? Malcolm breathed, “I can catch this guy.” He took a second, but just one, one long enough to control his shaking legs and spinning thoughts, before he wove around them and made for the hill once again. 

Gil grabbed his arm. Malcolm shook himself free. "Bright!" Gil called. But Malcolm ignored him. He ignored him in favor of focusing on one step from the left leg, then one from the right, alternating the two to keep a steady inclining pace all whilst not dropping to the dirt. The bulletproof vest felt heavier and heavier the higher he climbed and, as he scrambled to the top of the hill, a pang of nausea curled his stomach as pride tapped at his heart because he _made_ it. He _made_ it...

...to the top of a hill.

One measly little hill.

Malcolm frowned. He drooped, hands to his knees, as he listened to the crunching leaves of the rest of the team trailing up behind him. As he straightened out, he found Gil's cool hand on the back of his neck. A shiver ripped down his spine.

Dani started, "Bright, come on. You're a liability like--"

"Morrison," Malcolm interrupted. He blinked the fuzz from his eyes. Down the other side of the hill, perched on stilts and crafted from deep brown woods, was the massive cabin. He gestured loosely to it. "Morrison's in there…" 

It looked more like a luxury resort than a cabin in the middle of a forest. With wide glass windows and two chimneys, the place looked double the size of his own apartment. The trees shaded the roof, casting dancing shadows over the shingles as the leaves rattled in the hot wind.

"This place is giant…" JT hissed. "We're never going to find this guy even if he  _ is _ in there. And we don't have a warrant--"

An crack snapped through the air. Malcolm flew backwards, off his feet and to the ground. The air was punched from his lungs, his body alight with shock and pain. Gil screamed out, " _ Bright! _ "

* * *

The pop of gunfire had Gil ducking on instinct. He dropped to his knees, weapon up and eyes wary, all within a breath. But in that same breath he heard a grunt, and a wheeze, and Gil flipped around to find Malcolm sprawled on the leaves. " _ Bright! _ "

Gil scrambled to the kid's side as Dani and JT crawled over. Gil didn't even need to tell them to keep a look out as Gil hooked his arms under Malcolm's and dragged him for tree cover. It was crude, and left Malcolm grinding his teeth, clawing at Gil's arms and shoulders as he grunted in pain, but at least Gil got his kid to safety for the time being.

Morrison was off the fucking rails, that was for sure. The giant sprawled letters of N, Y, P, and D on the vests weren't exactly just for show, and if the man had the kind of weapons and training that they predicted, then he knew  _ exactly _ who he was shooting. The entire five-mile radius was a hot zone, but his cabin was deadly.

Though, why hadn't the man killed Bright? Gil's stomach flip-flopped at the notion, but it was a valid question. Everyone Morrison had shot previously was dead within a beat, a bullet straight through their skulls. But Malcolm was alive…

Gil began checking the kid over, looking for blood, patting up and down his arms first. He had Malcolm propped up against his chest, the kid's head down but Gil wasn't so sure Bright was even really with them. Was his fever already spiking too high? As his fingers skidded over the material of Malcolm's suit jacket, Gil felt no holes, but Malcolm's face was scrunched tight, his fever-glassy eyes distant.

"Did he get hit?" JT asked quickly.

Gil snarled, "I'm looking, I'm looking."

Dani cut in, "Gil, shouldn't we get him out of here--?"

" _ Yes. _ " Gil's hands rushed over Malcolm's vest. He prayed he would feel a dent there rather than a hole elsewhere. If Malcolm was going to get shot, it  _ damn well better _ _be_ in the vest. Perhaps Morrison was firing off a warning shot, smacking one of them in the vest to get them to back off. While it wasn't ideal, and was still held accountable as assault of a police officer - or consultant - in court, Gil would prefer that over bringing Bright to the hospital, or worse, the morgue.

His hands slid down the vest as Malcolm lay stunned against his chest, breathing hard. Gil was almost to the hem at the bottom of the vest when Malcolm grabbed his wrists. "I'm good…" he choked out. His voice was tight. "Just...winded."

"Did you get hit?" Gil asked.

After a beat and a sharp swallow, Malcolm said, "No. Just the vest."

And Gil could  _ breathe _ again. He relaxed, half-tempted to wrap his arms around Malcolm and just take a minute. But instead, he clapped the kid's shoulders and began to move. "Good. Good, okay." He slid away from Malcolm, helping to prop him against a tree trunk. Malcolm's jaw was clenched tight. He pushed himself to the trunk with one leg. Gil knew from experience that hits to the vest  _ hurt _ , and could leave bruises and broken ribs. A hospital visit, perhaps, was in order, as Malcolm could barely scoot himself over the dirt, let alone walk or stand comfortably.

Malcolm draped his arm loosely over his lower stomach, squeezing his eyes shut at the simple motion. Perhaps he was more sick than they originally thought. Gil didn't want to wait and find out, though. "We've got to get him back to the SUV. Get his ribs checked out." Gil said. It was either going to be him carrying Malcolm, or JT, and while he wasn't fond of leaving his two subordinates out in the woods with a killer, he was equally as disturbed by the thought of leaving Bright with someone other than him.

Gil had been called the helicopter parent before. Even Jessica had told him he had been hovering too much once upon a time. But with a kid who slept in restraints and had more demons on hand than the devil himself, Gil was comfortable with being cautious. Because the alternative was leaving Malcolm to be swallowed by the monsters that haunted him. The alternative was dangerous, and terrifying to Gil, and Malcolm didn't deserve that.  So he glanced to JT.

JT nodded. Circling around the cover of trees, he covered the cabin with Dani as Gil began to pull Malcolm closer to him to get leverage. They could worry about Bright's pride when he was safe and in the hospital. Gil re-hooked his arms under Malcolm's and pulled, dragging the kid to his feet.

Malcolm nearly crumpled as he screamed out, swaying his weight leftwards on one foot and toppling sideways despite Gil's hold. He caught himself on the tree trunk. "Jesus, kid…" Gil strained to bring Malcolm flush against his side, looping Bright's arm across his shoulders. "Bright, you sure you didn't get hit--?"

"I-I'm fine. We...Where's Morrison?" Malcolm craned his neck to see past the tree, up at the cabin.

Gil ground out, "No way.  _ No way _ . You're going back to the car…"

Malcolm wrestled weakly in his hold. "I can walk." he mumbled.

"Like hell you can." Gil spat. He felt his face flush with frustration. Was Malcolm  _ that  _ delusional? That out of it? That feverish that he couldn't see his condition? The idea dropped Gil's heart to his gut. Bright's brain could be boiling if his fever were too high, and Gil was getting heated over the kid's lack of thought. Of  _ course _ he wasn't thinking straight if he were sick. Gil turned to JT. "Tarmel, watch our--"

Another shot snapped over their heads. The tree next to them splintered as a bullet ripped through one end and out the other. Gil cursed.

He was liable for all three people: Malcolm was his consultant, but JT and Dani were his officers. And he'd never forgive himself if something happened to them while he was gone with Bright.  But Malcolm wasn't bleeding out. He had broken ribs, likely, but he was in one piece. The fever was bad, but he was coherent for the most part, it seemed. If they all tried to retreat, Morrison could shoot them again. But if the three of them left Malcolm behind, and take down the shooter, then they'd be safe. And Gil was willing to gamble on that. That, and on the fact that Bright couldn't chase after them.

Gil eased Malcolm back to the ground, propped against the tree trunk. He wrestled free his smaller, second handgun and wrenched it into Malcolm's flimsy grasp, curling the kid's fingers for him. Malcolm watched their hands with a half-dazed stare. "Bright." Gil tried. Malcolm's eyes stayed fixed on the gun now in his lap. "Hey, Bright. Look at me."

Malcolm shifted, glancing up at Gil. He was pale and shaking, his bright eyes burning a fierce blue from the fever.

"Good." Gil breathed around the stone of guilt swelling in his throat. If he had just paid attention, had seen Malcolm's condition sooner... "Look," Gil began. "I'm going to help JT and Dani take this guy down."

At his side, Dani said, "Boss…"

He held his hand up to her. "And you're going to stay here. Shoot anyone that's not us. Protect yourself. You hear me?"

"Loud 'n clear." Malcolm swallowed thickly. "Won't let'chu down…"

Gil's heart wrung tight. He clamped his hand to the juncture of Malcolm's neck and shoulder and squeezed lightly. It was the most Malcolm had ever let anyone do when he was a kid. Hugs had been too much, too  _ fatherly _ , so Gil had resorted to the most intimate of contact while having as little touch as possible. And Malcolm had clung to it.

Through his haze of emotions, Gil managed to say, "You'd never let me down, kid."

Malcolm hummed. He sagged against the tree, still clutching his lower stomach.

Gil hovered, unsure of what else to say. He didn't want to leave, but if they didn't take Morrison down, then no one would. If they didn't catch the man now, he could hurt his team, or other innocent hunters. He  _ needed _ to go.

Gritting his teeth, Gil pulled away. He stood and snaked around the treeline to where JT and Dani had staked themselves. Dani said, "We saw him. Your two o'clock, second floor window. Looked like he had two rifles, but we couldn't tell from here…"

"Two?" Gil turned to her.

She nodded. "Maybe more."

"Dude's armed to the teeth." JT huffed. 

Gil nodded curtly. He scanned over the area.

There was an opened garage area at the base of the hill, tucked underneath the stilted cabin. From there, three outnumbered one, and they could choke Morrison off on the top floor. And that was  _ if _ they moved fast enough and  _ if _ he was still upstairs, where Dani had seen him.

"All right," Gil checked into the windows facing them. He couldn't see Morrison, but that didn't mean the man wasn't watching. "Keep low. Let's move."

They moved quick, crossing behind trees every few steps. If the man had a rifle that could shoot through-and-through a tree, then they had to keep moving, he knew. Hesitating, stopping for breath, pausing for  _ just a moment _ could lead to death.

Gil felt his shoes skidding in the dried leaves. His heart hammered low in his chest, pounding in time with his scurrying feet as he rushed from tree to tree, keeping low, compact, hidden by the cover of nature, hopefully. Dani and JT ran behind him, moving at the same clipped pace with the same sense of urgency. The tension between them was heavier than the humidity, smothering them.

At the base of the hill, the land was bald save for a few patches of grass and the mud-printed tracks leading up to the garage. They kept low as they rushed inside and around the parked truck. In front of them was a door - "locked," JT had said - and, to the side, was a set of short stairs leading to another door that was wide open.

"Careful," Gil whispered. He kept his shoes light as he stepped up and into a hallway. They were quick, crossing the ground faster than they should of but Gil didn't want to waste any time. Malcolm was hurt and sick, and his team was in jeopardy. He wanted to finish everything as quickly as possible.

At the end of the hall, Gil nudged the another cracked-open door with his shoulder, welcoming them into a large stretch of foyer.  The ceilings were tall and the windows were giant, far more grandiose than Gil had originally thought when seeing the house. Chandeliers were strung high, giving the wood a deep warm golden hue, illuminating the room, and the layered pelt carpets muffled their footsteps, allowing Gil to feel more confident in their assault.

If Morrison found out they were there, there was no telling what he would do. Bright had concluded that the man was mentally ill, suffering from a condition that could be fixed with a concoction of pills rather than life imprisonment, but Gil wasn't completely convinced. What if the man was willfully murdering people who got too close? What if they went to the basement and found dozens of unidentified bodies strung up in his lair? What if…?

There were too many what-ifs for Gil to feel safe.  _ Catching Morrison  _ was the solution to his problem.

A soft snap behind tossed his stomach onto his tongue. JT squeaked,  "Shit!"

Gil flipped around. He froze at the sight of JT flailing as he swung back and forth in the air, a snare biting into his ankle and suspending him from the ceiling feet off the ground.  Dani was to him first, grabbing his coat to stop his swinging before circling his head and staring up at the taut rope. "Hold still. I'll get you free--"

" _Wait._ " Gil inched closer to them. "We've got to be quiet about this…"

"Guys--!" JT shouted.

Gil twisted on his heel, gun already up. He didn't even get to fire before a shot cracked through the silence and Dani screamed out. She flopped backwards and to the floor. Gil blanched. Had he--?

"Guns." Morrison had a rifle strapped to his back and a pistol in hand, with knives and gadgets strapped to his belt: the man could take them all out within a few shots with one gun, let alone with the remainder of his gear. Gil felt a hazy fear descend over him. He went blank, unsure of _what_ to do. What could he do? Morrison kept his voice steady as he said, "Drop your guns."

Behind Gil, Dani had yet to move, and JT was suspended in a snare. He wasn't even sure if Powell was alive. Besides that, could he even  _ carry _ her all the way back to the SUV, should he need to? Could he carry her, and JT,  _ and _ Malcolm to safety? His odds of escaping alone were unfathomably low, but the odds of escaping with his team...

Zero.

Gil slowly lowered his firearm to the floor, hating his own body's betrayal as his hands shook. Morrison didn't comment, but he must have noticed, as his eyes never left Gil's fingers. Even as he took a step back, away from his own glock, Morrison continued to stare.

Behind Gil, Dani groaned softly. Gil turned, breathless, whispering out, " _Dani_ \--?"

Something snapped hard against his spine. Gil was already on the floor, splayed out and half-conscious, when the sound of gunfire finally caught up to the shot buried against his spine.

* * *

Malcolm's hands wouldn't stop shaking. They were numb, but whether from the fever or the blood loss, he wasn't sure. He hissed as he shifted against the tree for the umpteenth time, trying to find comfort in the rough bark digging in like a second spine. His leg jarred again and he bit down on a scream before it could squeeze out.

He fiddled with the gun in one hand, and dabbed two fingers at the gunshot wound with the other. It wasn't a through-and-through, and he could feel the bullet solid in his flesh. Malcolm hadn't felt quite a strange sensation before: it was moving in him, inching with every breath he took, forcing more and more blood from his body. It was a missed hit, he supposed, as it narrowly avoided shattering his hip bone and, instead, digging into the meat above. He was lucky. He was  _ lucky,  _ because otherwise Morrison would have crippled him for life, immobilizing him as if he were some animal.

As if he were  _ prey. _

Malcolm closed his eyes. He flinched against the chill of the wind against his skin. It was cool, but  _ too  _ cool, leaving his teeth to chatter despite the heat smoothing his clothes to his skin with sweat. Malcolm felt absolutely  _ disgusting _ , unlike anything he had felt before--

A blast rang out, muffled but clear and coming from the house. Malcolm held his breath. A beat passed, and another followed, and by the third, he was peeling himself away from the tree trunk. He sagged a bit, listing against the dirt, but held himself upright with a propped elbow. Another shot had his adrenaline spiking, then silence.

From his distance, Malcolm couldn't quite make out what he was seeing. Through the windows of the house, it looked like JT was upside-down. But that didn't make sense. How was he _upside-down?_ Malcolm blinked hard. Then again.  Emerging from the shadows of the house, Morrison stalked closer. Malcolm went stiff. One pistol-whipping swing to JT's head left him limp. Malcolm felt queasy. He rolled onto his side, wincing as he went, before pushing himself to his hands, then his knees, then his feet.

He supposed he looked like an absolute moron as he scrambled down the hill, tripping over his baby-steps and nearly collapsing on every other footfall, but he knew he was the best the team had. He had to play hero if they all wanted to escape alive, he knew, and so Malcolm kept his pace even despite the pain radiating from the wound.  His pulse kept time through his blood, pooling against his fingers with every gush and every unsteady step. Was he going to bleed out before he reached the cabin? Was it bad?

Malcolm pushed a little harder on the wound. Black spots starred his vision and he slipped, flying up and slamming his back to the dirt. Gravity slid him to the foot of the hill, mercifully refraining from tumbling him end-over-end and, as he slowed to a stop, Malcolm sat stunned, breathless, immobilized. His hip stabbed him repeatedly, both deep and surface-level, as if his insides were being scooped out through the tiny bullet hole. Was that even possible?

The sky overhead shimmered, a gold filtering through the canopy of trees and blinding him. Perhaps it was some god coming to claim him. Malcolm never considered himself religious, instead devoting his thoughts to science, to _psychology_ , but perhaps the arms reaching down for him were those of a god's. Perhaps the spindly fingers that stretched down, then up, then down again were taunting him because he wasn't worthy of the afterlife.

But then he blinked, and confusing clarity oozed through him as he stared up at the tree branches. They swayed in the wind, up and down, up and down again, and Malcolm felt equally lost in the motion as he had in his own thoughts. Where had the hands gone?

A shrill cry snapped him from his reverie and Malcolm flopped his head back to peer back at the cabin. He knew that voice but from where, Malcolm wasn't sure. It reminded him of something new, something fresh, a white light in an otherwise grey world. Or was he just waxing poetics in his last moments before death? Was he even dying?

Malcolm rolled onto his stomach. His hip jarred. He choked on his cry. Malcolm fisted the dirt in clumps, taking it with him as it caked under his fingernails and glued to the sticky blood on his hands. He felt hazy, felt  _ wrong _ . Was he sick? A heavy agony pounded throughout his body, spiking every nerve. Malcolm couldn't discern where it was coming from more: his head, or his leg. Though, as he managed to tuck his legs underneath him and push to a kneel, Malcolm realized that it was his leg. His leg - stretching from his stomach down to his toes - was burning and squeezing and leaving him doubled him over, forehead to the dirt, fingers to the wound. He couldn't think, couldn't _breathe_ around the pain. Malcolm screamed silently, mouth open but voice gone.

He had been shot, he remembered. He had been shot by their suspect.

Their?

_ His? _

No, theirs. The  _ team's. _

The team?

Gil, and Dani, and JT--

That had been Dani's scream from before, Malcolm realized. His something fresh, his something new. His light in an otherwise grey world.

Dani.

He let the syllables roll off his tongue as he shifted and stood. He let the word glide through him, giving him a strength he didn't know he had, as he shuffled towards the cabin, ignoring his uncertainty, his confusion, his absolute agony. "Dani, Dani, Dani," was all he could say. While his leg was useless,  _ he  _ was not. His team needed him.

And goddamnit, he was Malcolm fucking Bright. If he couldn't save three people from one serial killer, what  _ could _ he do?

Or perhaps that was a bit too critical of him…?

He couldn't tell. 

Malcolm limped to the house, the gun to the side and his free hand clamped over the gurgling wound. He had half the mind to cover the injury, to hide it from their suspect, from  _ Morrison _ should he confront the man, because any weakness was dangerous when facing off against a killer. But the realization dawned on him that  _ Morrison _ was the one who shot  _ him. _

Why couldn't he remember that before?

Was it the blood loss…? No, it was the fever. He was sick.

Right?

He limped into the garage, half-tempted to stop there, to sit down and  _ stay down.  _ A muscle in his wounded leg cramped up and he folded over and against the hood of the car. A mantra flooded his head, a repeated  _ fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck _ that he only realized he was actually muttering aloud when he shifted, his foot dragging awkwardly and startling the wound into sending another spike of hot pain through him. Malcolm shrieked, voice cracking as he collapsed to the concrete. " _Fuck!_ Jesus fucking _C_ _h--_ " His voice snapped as he cried out into his sleeve.

He was freezing, his body shivering, but the concrete heated fast underneath him. Too fast. Was he spiking a fever?

He couldn't remember...

Malcolm rolled onto his back and blinked up at the ceiling. A kaleidoscope of reds and golds and whites spun before him and he almost threw up. He opened his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut, ready to just give up and give in and lose yesterday's breakfast on the floor when a string of curses came past his lips instead.

Or, no. Not his. His voice wasn't that deep. He shouldn't have sounded that far away.

Malcolm snapped his mouth shut. He breathed deep, listening...

Someone called out, " _Shit!_ "

JT.

That someone was _JT._ His partner, his _friend_ , the older brother he never had.

"J-JT…" Malcolm muttered. His voice didn't sound like his own. The room didn't look like his own. Where was Sunshine?

Where was  _ he? _

"--son of a bitch!" Gil's voice echoed around him. Behind him? Malcolm couldn't tell. "Let her go!"

He floated forward, his feet never touching the ground, his body left behind on the concrete. Malcolm drifted, half-alive, half-dead, perhaps as a ghost wandering in a purgatory of pain. Though he felt cold and hot, right and wrong, a mess of contradiction he couldn't make sense of. All he knew was that Gil was in front of him. H is Gil. His _real_ dad, the one he would have chosen if he could have...

Malcolm burst through the door obscuring Gil's voice.

* * *

Morrison had one hand fisted in Dani's hair from where she was crouched, secured to a pipe in the floor with her own handcuffs, when Gil regained consciousness. His back throbbed hard, heavy and leaving him wheezing, but he was clear.

His bulletproof vest felt too tight against his spine but he ignored it, instead focusing his energy on his own cuffs, on JT from where they were restrained back-to-back, on Dani as she thrashed in Morrison's hold. Morrison flipped a knife up into his palm from his belt and brought it under Dani's jaw.

" _ Stop! _ " She kicked out. Morrison dodged.

JT started cursing, started screaming, "God damnit! God _damnit!_ Shit!"

Gil cried out, "Morrison, you  _ son of a bitch! _ " He fought the restraints. "Let her go!"

Morrison brought the tip of the knife to her ear, pushed, broke the skin and Gil froze. He choked on air. " _ Dani-- _ "

The door to the basement flew open.

Everyone stilled. Gil could only hear their own echoing breaths, their panting, their fear reverberating off the concrete walls. That, and footsteps that took one step at a time. They were uneven, falling heavy and, as Gil heard the safety of a gun click, he knew.

Malcolm.

His absolutely _ genius _ kid who was absolutely  _ stupid _ at this moment. Gil figured that getting shot while high with fever could do make a man attempt a reckless rescue...

Bright tumbled into view, descending down the rest of the staircase rather gracefully given how _horrible_ he looked. He swayed with every step, his face pale and eyes glazed over with fogginess, circled by dark bags. Spilling over the fingers pressed to his lower abdomen was blood, because _of_ _ course _ Malcolm was bleeding. It stemmed from the space in-between his bulletproof vest and his belt, hidden by his black suit jacket but now clear and bright red against his white skin. Malcolm lifted Gil's gun a little higher, aimed right for Morrison's throat.

Morrison straightened out. "I'll kill them."

"I know." Malcolm blinked fast. "I...I know y'could…"

"Not could.  _ Will. _ " Morrison kept his voice flat, stripped of emotion. However, he released Dani, instead fixing on Malcolm. Gil felt sick. He focused back on his cuffs, back on something he could work with, as he wrestled with the loosening pipes securing them.

Malcolm shifted. A loose Weaver stance still had him shaking and unsteady.

Gil tugged. The pipe popped free from its place in the ground. Morrison spun. And Malcolm fired.

Two shots, a first and a second, both missing their marks exponentially but Gil was  thankful for that. The last thing Bright needed to do was murder someone without even really meaning to. Morrison staggered away and toppled backwards, bleeding from the holes in his arm and stomach. Dani was already wrestling against her own restraints as JT and Gil slid themselves free, still cuffed but at least able to move. Without hesitation,  JT tackled Morrison before the man could stand again, kneeing him in the face and fishing the cuff keys from his pockets. He slid one to Dani, and another to Gil.

Gil felt the handcuffs click free as he heard Malcolm's knees hit the floor. He was at the kid's side before he collapsed fully. Bright crumpled in a heap of limbs agaist Gil. His right leg sat awkwardly outstretched as Malcolm sagged against Gil. He whined high in his throat, choking on his pain, coughing up spit and Gil shook with uncertainty. Slowly, without any intense movements, Gil managed to maneuver his arms underneath Malcolm and flip him around as gingerly as possible.

There was blood spattered on the floor in a puddle, but the source was hard to see. Gil knew he had been shot, knew he had  _ lied _ about getting shot, but he wasn't sure exactly where the bullet hole was through the layers of black blood-soaked suit jacket and waistcoat.

Gil ripped at the velcro of the bulletproof vest, loosening it and gently tugging it from Malcolm's body. Freed and at Gil's side, Dani snagged it and tossed it over her shoulder. She knelt next to them with a tight-lipped frown. Hopefully more comfortable now, Gil eased Bright backwards until he was laid down, head in Gil's lap, eyes already fluttering shut. Dani scooted closer, hissing at the blood that had already stained Malcolm's dress shirt, trailing from underneath his suit jacket.

Peeling it back, they both inhaled sharply.

The wound was still gurgling rusty blood from a rather wide hole in the shirt, the bullet nestled just above his beltline. Dani shrugged off her own bulletproof vest, then the thin overshirt underneath it. She wasn't bashful as she stripped down to her tank top but, rather, her eyes were set with determination. Dani wadded up the shirt and pushed it hard to Malcolm's wound.

Malcolm screamed out, snapping upright only to be clamped back down by Gil's arms to his shoulders. "Bright,  _ Bright.  _ Just look at me, kid," And Malcolm did. His eyes flicked up to Gil, all dazed and lost in the hurt and the fever and  _ God, _ the kid was burning up. Gil carded his fingers through Malcolm's sweat-soaked hair, half to check his temperature, half to soothe him as Dani increased pressure.  He writhed, mumbling something against Gil's stomach but otherwise staying silent save for his heavy breaths.

Dani pressed even harder and Malcolm tensed.  Gil glanced down.

In the second it took for his gaze to find Malcolm, the kid went completely lax, practically boneless, flopping as Dani rolled him a bit to apply deeper pressure. Malcolm was out cold, face loose of emotion, of pain. It was the most peaceful Gil had likely ever seen Bright, and he was no longer feeling sick and in pain, but Gil's heart still clenched. He shifted Malcolm into a better hold, cradling his shoulders with one arm, holding his head with the other. "Where's that ambulance?" he rasped.

Behind him, JT said, "On its way. The path is rough, so it'll be a minute."

Gil held onto Malcolm tight.

Long ago, Gil had done the same thing. He had done the same thing when Malcolm was a child, waking up from nightmares so horrendous he would pass out from the fear, the anxiety, the hyperventilating. He had done the same thing when Malcolm was a teenager, overdosed on a cocktail of downers. And he had done the same damn thing - Bright's body feeling just as heavy - when they finally recovered him from Watkins after Malcolm gave out due to blood loss.

He looked just as fragile, just as small as he had back then.

"He'll be fine." Dani broke the silence.. 

Gil didn't bother speaking.

Malcolm could die by the time the ambulance reached them.

He could bleed dry, left to rot in Gil's arms.

He could burn up, his brain dissolving to mush from his fever.

And Gil felt a suffocating sensation of panic. In a fit of fear, he meant to cradle Malcolm closer, but the kid flopped in his arms and Gil growled with agonizing frustration. He hauled Bright up despite Dani's protests, holding Malcolm to his chest. The kid's feverish forehead pressed fire-hot to Gil's neck. Dani curled close to the both of them, finding and holding the pressure once again, even as she mumbled out, "You  _ can't  _ move him, boss. You know that…"

Gil licked his dried lips.

Bright was boiling against him in the heat. He was  _ too goddamn hot _ , and it was terrifying to hold him as he shuddered in his arms. Gil couldn't look down, couldn't see his shaking, his trembling, his bleeding…

Dani said, "He'll be okay, Gil. It's not a lethal wound. You know that."

And he did. He  _ knew _ it wasn't. But while the gunshot wasn't lethal, the fever  _ and _ blood loss may be…

* * *

Malcolm jerked awake from blackness, breathing hard but hurting harder, a pain rippling up from his hip and steeping his body in molten agony. His leg was tingling, and his stomach burned, and Malcolm had his eyes scrunched tight against it all.

"Bright?" Gil's voice came through the haze. "You ripped your stitches during that night terror, kid. Just hang tight. Doc's coming…"

He cracked an eye open, focusing first on the blurry ceiling, then on the even blurrier blob that was Gil. Gil hovered over him, a hand to the side of his neck, a familiar comfort. Malcolm leaned into it. "What...What happened?" he asked.

Gil said, "We got him.  _ You _ got him. You got Morrison. You've been out for over a few days…"

That made no sense.

Malcolm felt like only a minute had passed, like only a second had streamed by between him rescuing JT, Dani, and Gil, and waking in the hospital. He managed to croak out an, "okay" because he wasn't sure  _ what _ to say.

The sliding door opened and a huddle of nurses rushed in, surrounding one tall, white coat-wearing doctor. She smiled down at Malcolm from next to Gil. "Good evening, Mr. Bright. You've got some pretty bad nightmares, huh?" Only then did he notice the soft restraints around his wrists, tethering him to the bed. "Well, let's get you patched up, then put you on some better meds, okay?"

Malcolm didn't even have time to nod. A nurse was sticking something into his IV and he was out before he could speak.

When he awoke again, it was with more coherence. He was still restrained, but he felt relaxed and, surprisingly, pain-free. Malcolm blinked the fog from his mind and cast glances around the room. He stared over at Dani and JT sat in two plastic chairs, at his mother and sister cuddled close on the loveseat against the window, at Gil slouched in the seat brought to his bedside, and Malcolm felt content. He couldn't stop his eyes from closing once again.

By the time two weeks rolled by, he was fully conscious, moving around, and demanding his early release papers. Hospitals were obnoxiously boring and too sterile, leaving him feeling more sickly than when he first entered. Not to mention that the staff had little know-how about his mental health and his night terrors, and he was worried that his thrashing would result in his admittance to a psych ward rather than home if he wasn't careful. Thank god for Gil, though. The man always shooed away the nosy staff when they came waltzing in to talk to him.

And despite everyone's assurances that he wouldn't be admitted against his will, and despite everyone's pleas for him to stay just a little longer, to recover just a little more, he still found himself packing his bags. Quickly. _Very_ quickly. His hands shook with every motion.  Gil hovered in the corner, watching quietly. He was still a bit tense from the bullet to his back, but JT had told Malcolm that Gil would be fine, that it was just a tap to his vest and nothing more than a bruise now.

"You know," Gil started. "Staying another few days would do you good. And that way you won't rip your stitches again."

"I'll be fine." Malcolm huffed. "Besides, mother won't let me stay home alone. She's...hiring someone. Or, that's what she said she'd do."

"Someone…?" Gil sounded amused.

Malcolm didn't turn. He zipped up his bag and glanced around the room for anything he forgot. "Yeah, someone. Don't know who, yet, but I'm sure I'll meet them as soon as I get home."

"Would you be mad if I said it was me?" Gil asked. Malcolm yanked himself around. Before he could get a word out, Gil said, "I thought she already told you." He shrugged, and plucked Malcolm's bag from his hands. "Sorry, kid, but you're not staying alone after getting shot in the stomach  _ and _ fighting off the flu."

Malcolm waved him off. "I'm  _ fine _ , Gil. And it wasn't the _stomach_ , it was..." He wagged his hand in front of the wound. "Here. And I don't need help, actually."

"I took the week off." Gil rushed for the door. He pulled it open for Malcolm. "And I'm not about to tell my boss that I changed my mind."

Malcolm's head dropped with a slight laugh. He tried to twist his lips into a half-hearted scowl, but a smile broke through instead. "I'm going to end up punching you in my sleep."

"Maybe... " Gil shrugged. His bag-free hand dropped to Malcolm's shoulder, holding firm. "Kid, for  _ once, _ let someone take care of you?" he sighed. "You saved all our lives, so at least let me return the favor, okay?"

Malcolm sighed as well. He knew it wouldn't be easy to shake Gil off, _especially_ if he had taken the week of. But of all the people Malcolm could trust, and _wanted_ to trust, it was Gil. Gil, the man who never, not _once_ , doubted that he was his father. The man who had convinced his team that Malcolm Bright was not Malcolm Whitly, that he was more than his blood, more than his past. So, instead of combating Gil, Malcolm nodded. "Okay..."

Gil clapped him on the back. "Okay then." He wrapped his arm across Malcolm's shoulders before guiding them to the hospital room door. "By the way," he said. "JT and Dani? They can't stop talking about you. The whole precinct knows you as the guy who took down a serial killer with a bullet to the gut and a one-hundred-four fever."

"I got shot here," He gestured again. "Not the...gut or whatever." Malcolm sputtered in a double-take. "And it wasn't one-hundred and four I don't think…"

"You're right." Gil smirked. They slipped into the hallway and towards the front doors. "It was higher."

**Author's Note:**

> So. I tried something new. I've never done a dual POV that jumps between two characters like this. With Penultimate, I'm jumping in chapters, and I'm used to that. But this? Never really done it. So let me know how it went? Confusing? Not at all? Liked it? Not so much? And thanks! Also, I wrote half of this like, a week ago, and the other half now, so I'm sorry if it just...doesn't make sense or some parts need like they were glitter glued together. That's why.
> 
> This idea sprouted up from the whump server, where we started talking about... _something I don't remember_ and I was really here for this kind of idea. Thanks squad! For Jameena cuz she specifically said, "okay but what about getting shot below the bulletproof vest" haha.
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr, twitter, or the PSON whump discord! Hyperlinks on my accounts. Sorry for typos!


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